Moreover, all those great ideas bouncing around in your head that you were TOTALLY going to put in the BEST BLOG POST EVER? Yeah, should have written those down, jackass, because you totally do NOT REMEMBER THEM NOW. I could blame my advancing age for that, but there is really no explanation for why I can remember that Ted Williams hit .406 in 1941 while going 6-8 in a doubleheader on the final day of the season rather than sit out and guarantee that he would finish with a .400 average (39955, to be exact). Why do I know this? How come I can remember this rather than when the Future Mrs. Bob tells me to get milk, eggs and whatever that other thing is at the store? No idea.
But yeah, that's what being the Friday blogger is like. I missed last week because I was flying, and I'm posting early this week because I'll be flying again. I had hoped to get up to BFG while I was home in Houston...maybe give you kids a special treat, like a live Q&A or a video of us doing shots while the twins filled up our glasses or something, but let's face it -- anything live would have required some notice if we hoped to get any questions, and they haven't yet made the camera lens that goes wide enough to fit my fat ass into the picture with a second, normal-sized human being. That and it would look awkward with BFG standing and me sitting so that both of our heads were in the shot.
Being at home with your parents for a week (oh, and my crazy sister who was nearly molested by a divinity student in college -- long story) is kinda like an enforced return to childhood, only now I know better. In other words, it's a modification of the same arguments that I had back then, only modified for the fact that I now support myself, am gainfully employed, etc.
It's not that I DON'T like being back; it's that, like parents and children worldwide, we've never quite learned how to adjust our relationship. It's like building a Lego Death Star in the dark, with three fingers and with someone else constantly in your ear telling you that your doing it wrong even though they can't see what the fuck is going on either. I always think it will be different, always come home for too long and always end up biting through my tongue by about day three.
For a bonus degree of difficulty this year, we also have my father's younger sister, who is unable to care for herself, entertain herself, go two minutes without whining and oh, by the way, is unemployed after a small mistake where instead of taking three antidepressants, took three sleeping pills and went on a demolition derby spree (her license is still suspended from that little hootenanny). Have I mentioned that I leave tomorrow morning yet and that 11:55 AM can't get here soon enough? I have now!
That said, coming home is totally good for at least one thing, no questions asked: the food. Washington, DC has good food and a nice variety, but there are just some things that pseudo-Yankees don't get, don't do or that they haven't been able to master yet. Now this is a good thing, mostly, because if they did, I'd look like this, this or maybe this instead of just this, but that doesn't mean that I don't miss the following places dearly. For our Friday Five, I have put together a by-no-means comprehensive list:
5) Whataburger: Ahh, Whataburger. I totally have a soft spot for the Big W, dating back to college when they were A) the first place to take credit/debit cards at all and B) were the ONLY fast-food joint open 24-7 (c'mon, biscuits and gravy AND onion rings at 3 AM without having to go into the Ol' South?!?!?! IT'S A NO-BRAINER!!!). Let's all go enjoy the Whataburger story and then go out for a Triple Meat Whataburger with bacon and cheese, a large onion ring and a large Diet Coke. Aw, fuck, make it a large chocolate shake...I have a t-shirt on underneath this shirt, it doesn't HAVE to button...
4) Luby's Cafeteria: Bob Luby's vision, now owned by the Pappas family (whose kids went to Houston's Memorial High School with my mom), was a childhood favorite. When we stayed with Gagoo (my pronunciation of "grandmother" -- which stuck), it always meant a trip to Luby's! And when you were at Luby's, there was ONLY one way to go -- the famous LuAnn platter! Chicken fried steak (or fried fish), mac and cheese, fried okra, with a dinner roll -- and we always got a side of Jell-O and chocolate milk to boot! Ok, replace the Jell-O with chocolate cream pie -- yeah, I was chunky as a kid, how did you guess?
3) James Coney Island: Don't get me wrong -- I think that Ben's Chili Bowl in Washington, DC, has perhaps the finest intestine-encased meat/pork product topped with cheese and chili that I have ever deep throated: the legendary Half Smoke. However, again going back to my childhood, James Coney Island was the reward for sitting through an hour and a half of Episcopalian mumbling. First as a squirmy child, then later, until college, as an acolyte (think alter boy, minus the groping by a half-in-the-bag Papal-approved child molester), the second-best part of after church (the first was, during the fall, NFL football) was the trip to JCI for two with chili and cheese and a chili cheese fry. Read the history of the Greek immigrants who started the chain here. Yes, I did outgrow a lot of clothes as a child...why do you ask? Hey, it's because I was TALL...they were called husky sizes because they were so sturdy, right?
2) Guadalajara Hacienda: No visit to Houston is complete without a solid Tex-Mex meal. My choice for Tex-Mex? Guadalajara, with their convenient West Side (West Siiiide location. For me, the obvious choice is their cheese enchiladas, for which just a taste of I would push my mother in front of a moving bus. Sorry, Mom...but their enchiladas are REALLY good. The Enchilada Combo, with one cheese, one crispy beef taco and a Tex-Mex empanada is great way to get a wide variety of food. Their fajitas are top-notch...hell, I even had a salad there once (the San Miguel Caesar) and it was good. I usually have to pay, then hang out for thirty minutes or so before I leave. Part of that is to let my meal begin to digest; the other part is to wait for the crowd to thin so that less people see me walking out with my pants unbuttoned. I think they shrank in the wash again...I need to start using the cold cycle.
1) Hickory Hollow: Some of you may have seen the piece about this restaurant on the Food Network's "Outrageous Food" program; I've been going there since high school. A little joint down in the Heights (they also have two other locations), they have all kinds of BBQ, which I'm sure is good. They also have steak, po-boys and (gag) vegetable platters, for the weak-hearted among you who are watching your cholesterol, want to live past 100 or who aspire not to provide shade for Little League teams with the shadow cast by your gut hanging over your waistband.
Not being one of those people (well, kinda, but you'd have trouble telling), I can assure you that there is one primary reason to go to Hickory Hollow: the chicken fried steak with Texas river bottom gravy. With the "top" level priced at $13.99, it's a value that could feed a family for several days...or fill my belly in one setting. The steak comes in four levels, all served up on old pizza pin tins -- which could be a bad sign for A) your diet B) your New Year's resolution C) the button on your jeans/the seams on your pants or D) all of the above?
The answer is D, all of the above. Let's go through the lineup.
Stage One: For the Yankees, Dallas residents and guys who order the beer other than Miller Lite in the ubiquitous commercials, there is the Small Cowgirl (Perfect for ladies). Since the good ol' boys at the Hollow know that you are "watching your figure," it comes with a baked potato (I suggest butter, bacon, cheese, sour cream and chives -- just do a couple of extra minutes on the elliptical) and a side salad. Don't worry; you'll still be able to fit behind the wheel after this one. Hell, you might have to order a snack for the car.
Stage Two: For those who feel a little more comfortable in their manhood, the next step up is the Small Plowman (Perfect for lunch). You won't feel like nearly as much of a pussy, despite the inclusion of "small" in the name, and you can go for the baked potato and salad or the fries/mashed potatoes and salad. Mashed potatoes is ALWAYS the way to go with chicken fried steak; just like with the grits at Cracker Barrel with Grandpa's Country Fried Breakfast, you can load them all over the steak to "sandwich" the gravy to the steak and make sure that nary a delicious drop lands on you rather than in you. It's a little trick that us professional fat loads use to keep at our fighting (a heart attack) weight.
Stage Three: If you have a job where you can sleep in the afternoon after lunch or if you're looking to follow up your dinner with a comatose state, I would point you in the direction of the Medium Hired Hand (Texas sized). Again, the smart play is to go with the salad and MASHED potatoes -- not just because it's cheaper, but because of the aforementioned efficiencies vis-a-vis food delivery to your gaping maw.
Stage Four: This is where ordinary men fear to tread; this is the grandaddy of them all, the undisputed heavyweight champion -- the Large Rancher (the Saddle Blanket). It completely covers the pizza tin (I think a 16-incher, but I could be wrong on that) so that the side dishes are just off to the side -- they're bumped off the plate entirely. It should come with a warning label, a signed waiver and a free quadruple bypass. Unless this is your last meal before going into hibernation for the winter, or your waistband is three axe handles wide (like mine), I would NOT suggest tackling this with anything less than the starting offensive line for your local high school football team. And yes, I keep an emergency pair of sweatpants, size 10X, along with a camping tarp in the back of my car...well, I did until I outgrew them. And the car. Fortunately, my cousin has a dump truck to haul me around in.
Well, this has been "Gustatory Journeys with Bob," with your host, Bob Turney. Tomorrow, come on down to Hobby Airport around 11 AM and you can watch them grease me up with Crisco to wedge the extra 200 lbs of me onto the plane after my trip home. It's good, clean family fun -- at least until they strip me naked for the Crisco-ing.
Until next time, peeps!
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